


Blood of My Blood

by lullydef



Category: Lunar Chronicles - Marissa Meyer
Genre: Abuse, Blood and Gore, Childbirth, F/F, F/M, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Mental Illness, Murder, Secret Relationship, Sex, Toxic Relationship, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-09-20 12:34:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 17,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17022717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lullydef/pseuds/lullydef
Summary: (2018 REVISED VERSION) Between a throne, two children, and a horribly dark pastime, Marrok and Jannali preferred to keep their passionate love hidden from the world. A prequel to Fairest.





	1. The Virgin-Whore Complex

* * *

_“But when she sat in front of this mirror, Jannali had been as she was underneath. As she was really. She’d been pretty. Perhaps even prettier than she was with the glamour—though not as striking. Not as regal. Levana could recall being very, very young and having nightmares about her mother and the court and how everyone around her had two faces.”_

— Marissa Meyer, Fairest


	2. Pastime With Good Company

Prince Marrok shivered, a calm breeze tittering down his spine as he walked sullenly through Artemisia. The main street was moderately busy, young ladies and lords shuffling about from bars and parties to find their next thrill. James had invited Marrok out  _ incognito _  for a drink, a toast of sorts to the crown prince’s nineteenth birthday; even though his birthday had been celebrated with much pomp and circumstance nearly three weeks before, James preferred to hang around where they couldn’t be held back by their titles.

This resulted in Marrok walking back to the palace, sans escort, with the Earth looming overhead and the large clock tower striking one o’clock in the morning. James was already lost to booze and a young woman had kindly offered to let him stay at her place for the night. Marrok himself felt a slight buzz in his head, but aside from flushed cheeks hidden by his glamour, he was one hundred per cent sober.

He wished he was drunk. By that hour, his parents must have noticed his disappearance; he knew well that he would come home to a slap upside the head and a good lecture. The prince frowned, shoving his hands in his pockets. Tonight, as a pleasant break from court dress and coquetry, he wore a simple tunic and black pants—although the jewelled bracelet on his wrist made it clear that he dressed simply by choice.  James had neglected to mention that they would be going to the  _ Clair de Lune _ , a high-end club built in the heart of the city.

He shivered again. As he walked further, the streets narrowed and became obscure and untrustworthy. The prince knew that he was going the opposite way from the palace, but his detour was intentional—he wanted to avoid the noisy plaza and instead clear his head through the tranquillity of the back roads.

With nothing more than a whisper, said tranquillity was broken.

Marrok stopped walking and turned his head. The energy that poked him from behind protruded into his thoughts, taking centre-stage in his mind.  Footsteps approached quietly. He felt a hand brush on his shoulder, and he spun around, his heart hammering in his chest.

“What business do you have with me?” Marrok demanded, his eyes scanning the darkness for any sign of the intruder. After a few moments of silence, he smirked and crossed his arms over his chest. “Show yourself, or I’ll kill you.”

Through the light, Marrok could pick out a woman—her face shrouded in darkness, it mirrored the prince’s grin. “Those are some pretty big words for such a scrawny thing,” she mused.

Marrok swallowed down his contempt with a chuckle. Brushing off insults was a pastime for him; his father would often point out how lacking he was in the size department as if it somehow reduced his worth as a man. In the back of his mind, through the anger and alcohol, he wondered if he had let his glamour down.

_ So be it. What does it matter if this insignificant woman sees you as a scrawny beanpole? _

His heart skipped a beat. The thought wasn’t his own, that he knew immediately. He shivered as the woman took a step closer to him. She was glamouring the thought for him,  _ the bitch _ .

“Who are you?” He growled, quietly slipping his hand towards his back pocket, where he kept a small handgun. He wasn’t so stupid as to go out unescorted without at least one means of defence should his glamour ever fail.

Marrok frowned. He had every ability to reduce this fool to a bumbling mess on the ground, but something told him to  _ hold back _ —his hand froze. He was left unable to move it. This stranger’s glamour was stronger than he first thought.

As she stepped closer, Marrok noticed that she wasn’t a woman, but a girl, no older than twenty. She stood a head shorter than him. He grit his teeth, warding off her own control. The gun fit perfectly into his hand as he loaded the magazine. “I  _ will  _ shoot,” he warned.

_ Ugly J _ , the voice in his head whispered.  _ I’m Ugly J. _

A moment of silence. She forced his fingers loose and the gun fell to the ground. Stunned, Marrok glanced up at her with glazed eyes. What kind of sick joke was this?

“Now that I’ve introduced myself,” said the girl, pulling a cruel-looking knife from the pouch on her hips, “Who might  _ you _  be? I’ve never seen you around here before. I do love meeting new people.” She tilted her head. “New Fish.”

Marrok swallowed the lump of bile in his throat. His fingers itched to pick up the discarded gun and lodge a round of bullets in her brain. He didn’t want to die.  _ He couldn’t die. _

For if this woman truly was Ugly J, he knew that he wouldn’t be leaving that street alive. Her name inspired fear in every heart on Luna. It was said that at least forty deaths had been traced directly back to her, every corpse branded with a crude ‘J’ around the left ankle. She had been evading capture for the whole five years of her recorded career, and even the most powerful nobles found themselves double-checking their locked doors at night. When he read the crime reports, after another victim was found bearing her mark, Marrok would stare out the window of his father’s study and wonder if she could kill him in his sleep. She had a preference for young men, as the reports quickly began to show, and Marrok could imagine that the crown prince would be a nice trophy. But now, in his plain clothes, unescorted, there was no way that she could tell who he was. No, he must’ve just been a leisurely find to her, a little distraction in search of more impressive targets.

He felt her bend his bioelectricity once again. He was forced to take a good look at her as she stepped in the earthlight. Ugly J was unlike her namesake—her perfect face was framed by luscious brown hair, long and ethereal as it swayed in the breeze. Her eyes were black as pitch, a reflection into the very image of malevolence. What little he could see of her sun-kissed skin stirred something within him, and he couldn’t decide whether the feeling was his own or if Ugly J planned to have a bit fun with him before slitting his throat.

She smiled. “You didn’t answer my question, New Fish.”

Marrok felt a scream tear its way from his throat, but it was quickly stamped down as Ugly J slammed her lips against his in a bruising kiss. The prince stumbled back, landing on the ground as she straddled him. In doing so, she effectively prevented his escape, and with a hiss, she bit his lip and ran her hands through his flaming orange hair, bright compared to the jet-black of his glamour. He was left staring at her face, her eyes closed and cheeks flushed in pleasure. Her scent was mouthwatering.

“You’re one sweet piece of ass,” she growled in his ear. “ _ What is your name _ ?”

“Marrok,” he managed to gasp, pushing her face away. “My name is Marrok Blackburn!”   
  


Ugly J’s eyes widened, in what seemed like genuine surprise. It was quickly replaced with a mocking sneer. She stood, and with exceptional grace, she lowered into a curtsey, one hand in the air as if she were bunching the fabric of an imaginary gown. “Your Highness,” she cooed, and her voice made heat pool in his belly. “It is an honour to meet you, truly.”

Marrok somehow managed to stand on his shaking legs, fear urging him to run; but he remained rooted to the spot by her glamour. Being the offspring of the king, the prince was greatly gifted in the art of manipulation; however,  his ability to defend his own mind had always been disappointingly weak. He cursed his inability to push her away, to put her in her place. He knew that he would die here, and his parents would have to produce a new heir.

“You shouldn’t be leaving the palace alone, My Prince.” Ugly J slipped the knife back in its holster. “There might be murderers about.”

Marrok finally let out a bellowing cry as she let go of his mind, and not a second later, he felt a blinding pain in the back of his head. His consciousness fled. Ugly J let her axe fall from her grip and caught his limp body in her arms. She then lowered him gently to the ground. His blood covered her hands. As a final farewell, she kissed his forehead, leaving behind a smear of crimson lipstick.

It was not the last time that Marrok Blackburn would encounter Ugly J.


	3. But None Deny

“Of all the irresponsible and foolish things you’ve done over the years, this has to be your crowning achievement!” Queen Aisha barked furiously, barely resisting the urge to flick Marrok upside the head. His wound hadn’t yet healed; he still had to wear a ridiculous-looking bandage over his scalp. The doctor said that he was lucky he didn’t suffer a concussion.

He had been found by a royal guard sometime in the morning after the attack. The guard carried him back to the palace; Marrok could only imagine how pathetic he looked, limp as a ragdoll. He was interrogated over and over again on the incident, but he couldn’t seem to remember how he had come to pass out on the street; all he could bring to mind was a dream about a beautiful girl and her tropical perfume.

His mother, usually serene, had become a screaming banshee in her rage. His father, for his part, looked like he disapproved of his son’s careless expedition, but he had a mischievous glint in his eye that told Marrok that he had done something similar when he was his age.

“I thought we’ve warned you time and time again not to consort with Lord Abrasax,” said the king.

Marrok stared down at his hands, and he felt his cheeks flush. It was always odd when anyone addressed James by his formal title. “He’s my friend. And this is the first time in a while that he offered to leave the palace. He was doing quite well, I like to think,” he admitted.

Aisha slammed her glass on the table between them. Marrok winced. “He’s a delinquent! And, not to mention, the lowest of his house. You’ll be twenty years old next April, Marrok, and we won’t be here forever; it’s about time that you’ve begun to build relations with the leaders of the High Houses.”

“And to help you along on this path,” his father added, “I have some good news for you.”

Marrok leaned back in his chair, apprehensive. “Oh?”

“Lady Cynthia Delacourt has accepted a marriage proposal between you and her lovely daughter, the Lady Jannali. The wedding has been scheduled in three months’ time, and then you’ll hopefully have a beautiful princess to keep you in line.”

The prince smirked down at his lap. Of course, the king’s insistence on a bride for his only son had been the main topic of conversation at court for a while now. Every house had put their best girls forward in the hopes of tying into the royal bloodline, but in the end, King Tybalt had set his eye on Jannali Delacourt, heir to the wealthiest house on Luna. It was said that the girl had been born with gold in her veins and diamonds in her hair. Marrok suspected that Tybalt had chosen her because the royal family was facing financial troubles from his parents’ excess spending, but he knew that neither of them would admit it either way. Such a rumour spread across Luna would put a great dent in the royal family’s armour.

As far as Marrok could remember, he had never met Jannali Delacourt, but from what he had been told, she was quite the bore. She rarely attended galas or parties and was always silent at court functions. She was not part of any clique and there was no real demand for her hand amongst the noblemen. It was a strange match, the prince decided. He had expected to be betrothed to a social butterfly.

Marrok looked up to the king, forcing a smile. “Father, this is indeed great news. Another thing I won’t have to worry about.”

Aisha’s anger vanished like a feather in the breeze, and she sighed. “You’ll love her, Darling. Jannali is studious, charismatic, and wonderfully smart; she sings like an angel, too. You’ll make such beautiful music together.” She closed her eyes and put a hand to her chest. Marrok wasn’t surprised at her love of Jannali; she and Lady Cynthia had been good friends since they were young girls. Suddenly, Aisha sat up excitedly. “Oh, my little boy is getting married! Twinkles, I request that you appoint me head wedding planner, if you don’t mind. I would like to ensure that everything is perfect.”

“That would be splendid, Mother. Thank you,” said Marrok. Aisha nodded graciously. This was something Marrok respected greatly about his mother—her love for him was unconditional, as pure as a blue sky.

The king called for his attendant to jot down the order before he forgot it himself. Aisha began to chat with her husband about the upcoming nuptials, and Marrok shrunk down further in his seat, making no attempt to hide his indifference.

 

* * *

Ugly J loved bones.

 

It was a strange obsession, beginning when she was a young child. She kept bones from the chicken at dinnertime in her jewellery box. When she started killing small animals, their fragile skeletons became shining additions to her collection. She loved running her nails along the white of the bones, hearing the lively scratch that came with it. They were like wood, but they came from blood and flesh.

 

Before long, she moved on from animals and turned to people. She had committed her first murder when she was eleven and had been collecting human bones ever since. For every victim she claimed, she took a piece of their spine that was then added to a chain. Over the years it became a necklace that was always kept draped around her neck, accentuating the graceful slope of her collarbone. She never took it off. She loved looking at it, seeing how beautiful she was when she wore it. She wished that she could have someone paint her in nothing but that necklace, draped on a crimson couch, blood pooling at her feet.

 

It was a year after she claimed her first victim and started her necklace that she set her sights on a larger target. Evening had settled around the Delacourt estate, and she stood outside in the dark. She knew that Lord Delacourt had a routine like clockwork and that he would be alone in the sitting room at that precise time. It was the perfect set up, for the perfect murder, and soon she would be able to adorn her necklace further. At the thought, her fingers came up to her necklace and she scratched away at the remaining crusts of blood on the newest charm.

 

 _Perhaps I should become a jeweller,_ she mused.

 

As silent as a mouse, she sneaked around the back walls, the route perfectly mapped out in her head. There may not have been security cameras, but there were most likely microphones hidden in the walls, listening to every noise.

 

She silently snuck in through the cellar door, the scent of wine making her head spin and her throat beg for the red liquid. She barely kept herself away from popping a bottle open and downing it in one gulp. The house wasn't nearly as complicated as it looked on the inside, and she found herself at the door of the sitting room without much difficulty, quiet and unnoticed.

 

The door creaked as she pried it open, and Lord Samson Delacourt stared at her with wide eyes as she stepped into the room. He surely didn’t recognize her through the glamour. She grinned and shut the door. Locked it.

 

His brooding voice thundered in her ears. “Who are you?”

 

“The one who’s going to fucking _stab you death_!”

 

At that, his expression changed from irritation to anxiety. She came closer to him, staring into his loathsome eyes. She let go of her glamour and held up her knife. “I’m gonna show you that you can’t take shit from me. You can’t put your hands on my things,” she sneered.

 

He gasped, “ _Ja_ —”

 

She slammed the blade down into his face, as hard as she could. The knife went through his eye and pierced his tongue. He could only gurgle in terror. She pulled out the knife and plunged it into his back. Blood erupted from the wound; she had hit a major artery, and maybe even the heart.  She let out a howl of laughter at the sight of Samson’s crumpling body, at the satisfying squelch as he fell to the ground. She tucked her hands in her sleeves, coming out with a razor-sharp scalpel, posed to cut. _Slash, slash_. The lord's shirt was nothing but scraps of silk on the floor as she held him by his muscular chest, digging out the dagger and slipping in the smaller weapon. She peeled away the skin and flesh until she found the white of his spine. She ignored the bursts of sticky crimson that landed on her face as she pried out a piece of bone, round and glistening with blood.

 

Her eyes gleamed. _I’m putting this one in the middle._

 

* * *

The king and queen had arranged for Marrok to get better acquainted with his fiancée before the wedding. And in a sense, Marrok was glad; none of the rumours had prepared him for how _boring_ Jannali truly was. That morning, he came into the throne to speak to his father, only to be met with Cynthia Delacourt’s beaming smile. She stood alongside his parents. The throne had no occupant that day. A girl—Jannali, he assumed—stood abreast to her mother with her nose in a book.

Marrok immediately composed himself. Cynthia’s smile widened and she curtsied. “Your Highness, how nice to see you.” There was an awkward pause as Jannali remained standing, not ungluing her eyes from the volume in her hands. Cynthia cleared her throat.

“My apologies, Your Highness,” said Jannali, slamming her book shut. She held it demurely in front of her as she dipped into a curtsey of her own. A shiver ran down Marrok’s spine—the action carried a condescending air, and it couldn’t help but feel familiar. He quickly waved the feeling away and bowed in turn.

“I am delighted to meet you, My Lady,” he said, forcing the barest amount of life in his voice.

Jannali held out a hand, a gentle flush to her pale cheeks. It was as if someone had dipped her in a vat of white paint; her hair, nearly a silver shade, was delicately braided down to her hips and her dress was the purest silk, inlaid with crystals. Her striking violet eyes were topped with smouldering lashes. Marrok kissed her hand, not once breaking eye contact.

“Likewise, My Prince.” She pulled her hand away, and only then did Marrok realize that he had still been holding onto it.

Pleased that the two had been acquainted, Tybalt and Aisha led Lady Delacourt on a tour of the gardens, with Marrok and Jannali following behind. Jannali said nothing, staring ahead with her book clutched to her chest. Marrok glanced at her periodically, unwilling to be the one to start conversation. It pained him that he would have to spend the rest of his life with this girl—she might as well have been a mute!

“You two are awfully quiet,” the queen chirped, her arm hooked through her husband’s. “What were you reading, My Lady?”

Jannali looked down at her feet, then back up at the queen. It might’ve just been Marrok’s imagination, but she nearly seemed irritated with the queen’s disruption. It was a jarring reaction, given how amiable Aisha was—she had a habit of charming anyone she met. Jannali’s cold stare didn’t endear her to the prince; he didn’t appreciate such treatment of his mother.

“Forgive me, Your Majesty. This is my notebook.”

“Oh? What for?”

“Chemistry.” Jannali smiled for the first time that day. She opened up the note to a middle page and held it up for them to see. Marrok’s eyes widened as he took in the complicated formulas scrawled across the paper. It was enough to make his head hurt; his aptitude was not in mathematics and the sciences, but in music and literature.

Unfazed, Jannali continued,  “I like to think that I have a talent in the sciences. My tutor is expecting me to do well on my next exam, and I wouldn’t want to disappoint him.”

“Her father, may he rest in peace, would have been very proud of her,” Cynthia added, coming to walk next to the queen. “Samson enjoyed studying chemistry as a young man.”

Jannali shot a glare in her mother’s direction. Cynthia remained oblivious to her, talking more to Aisha now about her husband’s many accomplishments. Marrok watched with slight amusement as Jannali closed her book and resumed her blank stare, obviously irritated. He didn’t quite understand her reaction; Lord Delacourt had been assassinated over three years ago. Surely any mention of him didn’t bother her anymore.

“She seems to get on your nerves,” Marrok joked, in a vain attempt to break the tension.

Jannali shrugged, never once looking at him.

“What do you plan do to in the sciences?”

She glanced at him. “I don’t plan to do anything. It’s just a hobby.” She held her head high and narrowed her eyes. “My future has taken a sudden abrupt turn.”

The prince shrugged and held his hands behind his back. “Mine too, you know.”

Jannali put a hand on her cheek, as if she were feeling her own temperature. She grinned and said, “I can’t wait to become your trophy wife.”

“Is that what you think of me?”

“I know that I’m nothing more to you than a walking womb.”

A surge of anger crept up his spine. He wanted to slap her; such a direct insult to his character hurt more than a punch to the gut. “You are not an object to me; I don’t assume such of anyone, not even my worst enemies. But if you want me to treat you like a thing to be used, I’ll indulge you,” he threatened.

“We’ll see,” she drawled. “I’m sure you’ll forget all about me in due time.”


	4. My Heart Is Set

 

"We should go out and get wasted," James said for the umpteenth time. He had his right leg draped over the back of the couch, the other dangling uselessly to the side. 

"Get your foot off the couch; you'll stain the upholstery,” Marrok replied. After a whole day of suit fittings and final wedding preparations, he had no desire to go and sit by while James got smashed with a lady of a lower house that just so happened to be at the same bar. Besides, it was never wise to go and get drunk on the eve of a royal wedding.

The event was all the servants would talk about as they milled about the palace. The queen was particularly excited about the wedding, if her devotion and careful planning were any indications. She had even been present at Marrok's final fitting, dressed in her own attire for the reception and dance. The style, of course, was all her own; her red hair had been teased up in an elaborate  _ rococo _ -style updo. With the roses weaved in her curls, she reminded Marrok of the queen who had been guillotined during the French revolution.

Shaking his head, Marrok said to James,  “I do not wish to leave the palace tonight.”

"Why not? If I were you, I'd take the time to relish in my last night of single life."

"You're acting as if this changes anything. Just because I'm married doesn't mean that my loyalty lies with my wife." The prince shrugged. "And with a bride like Jannali, I'll have a mistress within the next week."

As soon as he heard himself say it, Marrok felt a familiar insecurity wind its way into his heart.  He was not a virgin, though he had only ever had sex twice; the first time, when he was fourteen, was with a girl his age, a daughter of the minister of education. He did it because it was what the other kids did, because of how it was just  _ to die for _ . It didn’t hurt physically, but it made him feel weak and worthless; he cried himself to sleep after she had gone. He never spoke to her again. 

He decided to give it another shot three years later, with a woman ten years his senior. He thought that it might’ve just been his young age that made his previous experience so miserable. He cursed himself for suffering it a second time; alone in his room, smelling of sweat and shame, he decided that he wanted no part in sexuality. His heart always found its way into the act, and he felt used when there was no emotion to feel from her, or himself. In those few degrading moments, Marrok was nothing more than a hunk of flesh. 

James let out a loud groan, damning the thoughts back into the pits of Marrok’s stomach. "So,” he said,  “You coming or not?"

Marrok smiled. "Go home, James."

 

* * *

 

Jannali was roused at the crack of dawn and made to suffer the most vigorous bath she’d ever known. The maids didn’t question the tinge of red held by the bathwater after they helped her out of the tub; they assumed that she was simply on her period. Her skin was tingly all over as the maids pulled at her hair and twisted it into tight curls. Jannali tried to complain; what was the point of going through this nonsense when she could easily glamour her hair into a silver masterpiece? She was quickly silenced as her corset was tightened around her, and she instead managed a wheeze.

She snarled at the woman who’d pulled the strings—Lady Hortense, her new mistress of the household. Jannali had disliked her immediately, and over the past two months came to call her Miss Bitching, especially when she’d say things along the lines of, "My Lady, you mustn't slouch. We can't fit you properly into your gown the way you stand. Smile, frowning doesn’t become you!" The most infuriating of all was when Hortense would make comments about her breasts. 

Jannali pursed her lips and tensed every muscle as the gown was lifted onto her body. It was a hideous poufy thing that blended with the white skin of her glamour. From the neckline to her waist there was an ocean of lace, and ribbons had been stitched on every available surface. She felt like a cake topper, and rather wished that she could attend the ceremony naked.

She was told to smile.  _ This is your wedding day. Shouldn't you be elated, Milady? _

_ Fuck off with your smiling. _ She had been prospecting the night before, and had not returned home until the small hours of the night. She was certain that there was evidence of her sleep deprivation beneath her glamour. Her every movement was rough and screamed of annoyance. The ride to the palace was endured in silence. Jannali observed the crowds lined up along the streets, pelting the hover with flowers and regolith dust, as was custom for the bride's procession; the bride herself buried her head in her hands. It was beyond embarrassing.  _ Don't these people have anything better to do _ ?

When the hover came to a stop outside the main entrance of the palace, Jannali was escorted to the chapel, to the parlour where she'd finish primping up for the ceremony. Two guards flanked her sides, and annoyance raged in her, although she knew that this was only the beginning. As soon as she walked out of the wedding hall on the prince's arm, she would be escorted by an army of palace staff everywhere she went until the day she died. How glad she was that Ugly J didn’t need to be guarded day and night.

"Please, right this way," said the guard, opening the door for her. Jannali brushed past him. "Should you need anything at all, simply call for your handmaidens. They are waiting in the next room." The guard smiled. "You look beautiful, My Lady. And, know for certain, I do look forward to calling you my princess."

"Thank you," Jannali whispered. And when the guard left her side, she snorted. It wasn't anything new; from the moment her engagement was announced, anyone and everyone had been brown-nosing the young queen-to-be. But that guard in particular seemed to hint at something more than simple ass-kissing; Jannali made a mental note of him.

The room was very cold. Each tile on the floor was different, displaying one rich colour after another. Wide pillars supported the ceiling, quartz giving way to marble, marble giving way to onyx, regolith and granite. She caught sight of her reflection in the large mirror on the wall. She cocked her head, immediately intrigued by its strange design. It stood ominous, taller than even Serenity, her gargantuan lady-in-waiting. It was framed in silver that was tarnished with age. The metal had been crafted into elaborate scrolls with a prominent crown centred at the top. On the sides, silver flowers and thorny branches entwined around the frame, looking as though they were growing out from behind the mirror, like they would someday engulf it entirely.

Jannali began to tear the pins and elastics from her hair, letting it tumble down her shoulders in a wavy mess. She then rubbed her eyes, smearing her mascara and eyeliner until she looked like a racoon. She dragged her fingers down her face, making a trail of black tears. To complete the look, she grabbed a tube of blood-red lipstick from the vanity and smeared it on her lips. The red pigment dripped down her chin. It stained her teeth. Jannali smiled and was satisfied with the animal she saw in the mirror. She found herself growing fond of the thing; she would ask the king to give it to her as a wedding gift. 

From outside the room, she could hear the echo of an organ. The orchestra and chorus must've been doing a sound check. Jannali wiped her hands by rubbing them down her bodice, leaving hideous red stains. She tore off the layer of bows that lined the edge of her gown, already feeling a little less ridiculous. It was a shame that she would have to hide her improved look behind her glamour. If her entourage noticed a change in her attitude, they didn't comment during the walk down into the antechamber. Once there, she was fussed over a little more by Lady Bitching and a sumptuous bouquet of white lilies was put in her gloved hands.

The music grew louder in the hall, indicating their cue. Jannali had been given the option to have a bridal party—she politely declined, in part because she didn't want to bother with any details of the ceremony, but mostly because her only friend couldn’t be trusted to behave herself.

The grand doors opened, and the bright light nearly disarmed the bride. Jannali forced herself not to shoo away the young boys that held her train for her as she made her way down the length of the chapel. The march was slow and the aisle was long, nearly endless, and then, at last, at  _ last _ , she was met with Marrok's open hand. In a symbol as old as the world, Jannali placed her own hand within the prince's. The slight twitch of his palm in response to her touch was exhilarating;  _ undoing him is going to be so much fun _ , she tittered to herself. 

She willed her body to be cold and unfeeling as they both turned to the officiant. The man's words were a blur in Jannali's ears as her flesh burned. Marrok was a statue, as cold and as smooth as marble. Jannali glanced at him,  remembered him as he truly was; tall with a mess of red curls, warm brown eyes, freckles covering every scrap of skin she could see. She cared not for his glamour of a golden-haired Adonis, but the thought of that scrawny prince that she had encountered on the street, on his knees with fear in his eyes, made her burn with a carnal lust that she had never felt before. 

The officiant spoke of the importance of their union, of the magnitude of the occasion, of the joining of two hearts. The customary golden ribbon was wrapped around both their forearms. Their vows were traditional words that had been spoken a million times before. "I, Marrok Blackburn," the prince slipped a wedding band on her finger, and she shivered with pleasure. "Take you, Jannali Delacourt, to be my wife and queen. You will be my stars at night and my sun at dawn, and I promise to love and cherish you for the rest of our days."

Barely able to control her shaking hand, Jannali took the second band from the ring-bearer and put it on Marrok's own finger. "I, Jannali Delacourt, take you, Marrok Blackburn, to be my husband and king. You will be my stars at night and my sun at dawn, and I promise…." She smiled slightly, her fantasies becoming even more violent, "...to love and cherish you for the rest of our days."

A hush fell upon the nobles in the pews as the officiant declared them man and wife. There was a grand pause that felt like it belonged in a Mozart concerto, tense with anticipation. In Marrok's eyes, indecisiveness and protocol battled for dominance. In the end, it was clear who won out; he gently tipped Jannali's head back and pressed his lips to hers.

Jannali took him by surprise as she threw her arms over his shoulders and forced her tongue into his mouth. Had they seen this, everyone would have acted shocked at her sudden display, but there was no reaction of any kind from the congregation; all they saw was a quick, chaste kiss, their lips barely touching. 

Jannali held him by the hair, grinding her hips against him. She giggled as she felt him grab her waist and wrench her away. He took a quick breath, his eyes wide open. Jannali smiled at him and turned to the audience; as the room rang with applause and cheer, she thought of how pretty he would look with a 'J' carved into his ankle.

 


	5. Company With Honesty

Marrok slept alone on his wedding night. He was glad, though, that he was able to have any time for himself after the boisterous celebration. All three hundred-and-some members of the court attended the ball; Marrok was ready to retire for bed as early as ten o'clock, but he was urged to stay until every last courtier either left or was carried out in a drunken stupor. James had managed to remain half-sober throughout the event, so Marrok was happy to spend the majority of the evening with him instead of the bride.

Every once in a while, he’d glance over to the new Princess Jannali; when she wasn’t dancing, she stood over at the dessert table, talking to a girl in red. From the small crest sewn on the girl’s bodice, Marrok guessed that she was a member of House Mira. The two of them were laughing gaily; about what, Marrok could only guess. It was the first time he’d seen Jannali talking to someone of her own volition, without the enthusiasm of a corpse. Her laugh was beautiful, like the sweet bells in Charolais’ sixth symphony. He tried in vain to ignore her.

The party was eventually dismissed at half past three. Free from the public eye, Marrok waved his maids away when they offered to help him undress. He collapsed onto his bed and shrugged off his coat with a contented sigh; he had been sweltering beneath the suffocating velvet. He then took off his shoes and crawled beneath the blankets, still wearing his chemise and dress pants. He expected to be woken up within the hour by his new wife so that they may consummate their marriage, as was custom. But Jannali had not shown up, which suited him just fine. The thought of sex was already dreadful to him; it would be even worse with a cold girl like Jannali. Marrok feared that he would have a complete meltdown at the first awkward kiss.

Before sleep could take him, he suddenly remembered, in vivid detail, the bizarre assault Jannali had inflicted upon him during that first minute of their marriage. He ran his fingers over his lips; they still felt a bit swollen.

 

* * *

 

He saw her again, in his dreams: the girl with the black eyes—gaping holes of pure darkness. Her hands cupped his face. She laughed at the feeling of his burning cheeks.

It had been three weeks since he saw her last; he was beginning to miss the black-eyed woman. That night, she was clad in only a diamond necklace. Her body was all the clothing she needed. As she took him into her embrace, her breasts were pushed against his chest, and her legs were wrapped around his own. She didn’t show a hint of shame. Her breath was warm against his ear as she whispered the coveted words: _I love you_.

He stared at her, thinking only of how his blood boiled beneath his skin. Was this the elusive feeling of lust, the same force that would drive people to madness? It was a burning heat in his core, a desperate _need_ to possess the black-eyed woman. She happily indulged him, and their bodies came together as one.

 

* * *

 

Marrok woke at two in the afternoon to find an unsightly stain on the sheets. It took a moment for him to piece together the source of the mess, and upon realizing his body’s treachery, he pulled himself out of bed with a groan of disgust. It had been a long time since he’d last suffered through a wet dream; he wanted to believe that he was past the age of uncontrollable hormones. He angrily ripped the sheets from the mattress and stuffed them down the garbage chute. His pants followed soon after.

After a scalding shower, Marrok dressed in loose clothes and settled at his desk, intending to escape his embarrassment through some mindless task. He decided to study his father's memoirs for the thousandth time. It was book of lessons and rules that Tybalt had ordered his son to read through once a month, intended to ensure a smooth transition for when Marrok would come to wear the crown. Before long, the endless scrawl of political and economic science made the prince want to weep. A nasty migraine was brewing like an angry storm. After twenty minutes, Marrok fell back asleep, slumped across the desk.

At six-thirty, a servant roused him gently and announced that his family wished to sup with him. Marrok took great pains to move as slowly as possible; he showered again, dressed in another velvet coat and downed a cup of black coffee. When he felt that couldn’t delay any longer, he resigned himself to the dining room, where his parents and his wife were waiting for him. The ornate table boasted a feast of roasted meats, sweet corn and caramel tarts. Marrok was normally quite fond of these dishes, but tonight he found that he couldn’t bring himself to swallow.

Jannali sat across the table from her husband. She held herself like a marble statue, poised and elegant. Her eyes, a deep royal purple, never ceased to catch him off-guard. Her silver locks had been teased into large curls that resembled blooming roses. The elaborate hairstyle looked out of place on the lifeless girl. She clashed significantly with the queen, whose fiery hair was pulled back in a thick braid.

"Tell me, Twinkles," said Aisha, "Was the party to your liking? I made sure that they only played Charolais’ compositions. I know you prefer her over Lalji."

Marrok resisted the urge to groan. Even in private, he hated when she addressed him by her little pet name. She liked to say it was because his eyes twinkled when something caught his interest. It was cute when he was six, but he was now a grown man; he wanted nothing more than to be treated as such. As a courtesy, however, he smiled and said, "I noticed that—and all my favorites, too. Thank you, Mother."

Aisha beamed. "Ah, I’m so glad! Though, I must admit that I requested they play your father's favourite menuet…"

"It was splendid," the king cut in, finishing off a chunk of meat. "You've outdone yourself, Dearest."

"And you, my darling daughter-in-law?" The queen turned to Jannali, who was shrouded in her usual air of solitude and indifference. She hadn’t looked up from her plate since the presentation of the meal. Even as the queen spoke to her, she only bothered to nod in response to Aisha’s questions, along the lines of whether she enjoyed the festivities and if not, what could be done for next time. Marrok sat back, irritated. His mother was much too kind with her.

After dinner was the _salon_ , where the royals were joined by close friends to partake in leisurely pastimes. Among the often-invited nobles was Genevieve Moonborne, Aisha’s beloved mistress. Marrok felt that he had a special relationship with Genevieve, akin to a godmother—she had acted as a mentor to him in his childhood by being his first piano teacher. He always made sure to greet her with a genuine smile and a kiss on the cheek. He tried not to hold against her the existence of her two loathsome sons, though they had made it exceedingly difficult to do so in the past. More than once, Jared and Seth Moonborne had violated the clear boundaries, both physical and emotional, that Marrok had set around himself. He was still bitter about the terrible damage they had caused to his priceless grand piano—while he was away on a day trip to Dianan, they had ripped the keys off and soaked them in highly-concentrated hydrogen peroxide. Marrok swore that he would wring their necks if given the chance.

James was not invited to attend the _salon_ , due in part to his lower rank, yet largely because he did not fall in Their Majesties’ good graces. Since Marrok had no interest in gambling or playing cards with the older courtiers, he was left with Jannali for company. He found her curled up on a settee by the holographic fireplace, scribbling away in that little notebook of hers. Marrok had the sudden urge to tear it from her and rip it to shreds. Instead, he sat down next to her and cleared his throat. She glanced up at him. Her stunning eyes made his vision shift.

“What can I do for you, Your Highness?” Jannali inquired, her voice soft and meek.

Blinking repeatedly, Marrok folded his hands in his lap. He wasn’t sure what had possessed him to approach her. He eventually asked, “Would you be interested in a stroll by the lake? It’s getting to be quite stuffy in here.”

Jannali tilted her head, and Marrok got a sudden whiff of her perfume, cutting through the ocean of cologne and other scents that the nobles sported. It was a pleasant, subtle mix—coconut and something else that he couldn’t place.

For the briefest of moments, he could’ve sworn that her glamour wavered. Jannali smiled, displaying her pearly white teeth. Marrok suddenly shivered; she reminded him of those beasts in the menagerie that would bare their teeth before attacking their prey. “That would be wonderful, My Prince,” she said with the sweetness of a child.

 

* * *

 

There were butterflies milling about the flowers, their violet wings shimmering in the evening sun. Marrok found the sight pleasant until he saw visions of his younger self pinning the helpless creatures to a wooden board. They were still alive when he would stick needles through their thorax. That board still hung on his wall, in a forgotten corner of his vast chambers. As much as he hated to admit it, the act of impaling the butterflies had given him a sick sort of pleasure. He supposed it had given him the sort of power that a child could only dream of; how glad he was to be out of that phase.

Jannali walked by his side, close but silent. He glanced at her often, hoping to catch her doing the same. She chose instead to stare at the Artemisia Lake’s glimmering waters, seemingly lost in thought. Marrok wished that she would take his hand; it wasn’t until his finger lightly brushed her skin that he came to his senses. He exiled his hands to behind his back. “You don’t talk much,” he said.

“I speak when I have something meaningful to say.”

If it was meant to be a jab against him, Marrok ignored it. “If we’re going to make this work between us, we should take the time to get to know each other. I don’t want to spend my life married to a stranger.”

Jannali finally turned to look at him. With a lazy smirk, she asked, “What do you mean, ‘between us’?”

He sighed, frustrated. “You think that you mean nothing to me, but you‘re wrong on all counts; I see this as more than some political arrangement. I always hoped that I would be able to develop, at the very least, a friendship with the one I married and had children with. I can’t just close my eyes and pretend that you’re a _walking_ _womb_ , as you so eloquently put it. Do you understand that at all?”

Jannali took a moment to ponder his statement. “You know nothing about me either.”

“Fine, then. Let’s start slowly. What’s your favourite colour? Mine’s red.”

Jannali smiled. “Purple. I simply _adore_ purple, if you couldn’t tell by my eyes.”

Although it was a severe breach of court etiquette, Marrok then asked: “And your real eyes? What colour are they?”

“They’re quite...dark. I’m not sure what they call such a shade—onyx?” She shrugged. “Anything else?”

Marrok looked at her intently, a faint shadow of alarm on his face. It disappeared as quickly as it came. He cleared his throat and said, “It’s your turn.”

“I’m not quite sure that I like this question game. May I list what I like about you?”

“Indulge me.”

Jannali sighed. “Your hair is so beautiful, My Prince. It’s like _fire_.”

Marrok stopped walking. He grasped at his hair and saw that his glamour was still in place; he had kept the appearance of the blond boy that he wore at his wedding. His hair settled on his neck like spun gold. “I do beg your pardon?”

“Your _hair_.” Jannali’s grin widened. “I love it to pieces.”

Marrok’s cheeks burned. He didn’t remember being around her without the shield of his glamour. “How the hell did you see that?” 

“I’ve seen a lot more of you than that, My Prince.” Her voice took on an eerie graveness. “I like to watch you at night…”

His breath caught in his throat. He felt a weight in his stomach, and fear chilled his blood.

Jannali burst out laughing. “Oh, I’m sorry! I’m afraid I have quite an inappropriate sense of humour. I can’t apologize enough; that was in such bad taste!” She brushed a lock of hair behind her ear. “Mother told me that you look just like Her Majesty, and well...her hair is so _unique_ , you see.”

Marrok shook his head. “Forgive my reaction, it just came out of left field.” He took in a deep breath. “Let’s forget about it. What are your hobbies? Aside from studying, of course.”

“I don’t have time for hobbies.”

“I find that hard to believe. Surely you don’t spend your life with your tutors?”

Jannali ran a finger on the pearl necklace draped across her collarbone. She bit her lip and said, “I used to make jewellery when I was little. My mother would give me spare gems and broken chains, and from them I’d make little baubles.” She held up her right arm, revealing a thin silver bracelet inlaid with violet-coloured crystals. “The ladies in my mother’s inner circle thought they were absolutely precious and would buy them off me. I suppose you could call that a hobby.”

The sight of the bracelet sparked a long-buried memory within his mind—his mother had once given him a similar piece of jewellery, saying that her friend’s daughter had made it with her own skilled hands. He had been enamoured with the thing. A little “J” had been carved in the silver beside one of crystals, and Aisha had told him that it was the girl’s signature. It didn’t fit his wrist anymore, but he still kept it hidden away with his most treasured possessions. He liked to watch it sparkle in the sunlight.

When he could finally return to his chambers, he dug out the bracelet from a box full of pearls. He settled in bed with a book, a copy of Verdant’s _Boundless Evil,_ in one hand and the bracelet in the other. He meant to annotate the infamous matricide scene in chapter twelve, where the protagonist murders her mother in a plot to seduce her stepfather. Marrok instead fell asleep with his fingers clutching the bracelet. He forgot to lock his doors, and he dreamt of her again.

  
  
  



	6. I Love Until I Die

It was always better when she took her time; delayed gratification made the high even more intense when it was finally reached.

For this, Ugly J had an abundance of patience. She could have slain Marrok on the night they met; she hadn't killed for a month and she was thirsty for blood. A higher power must've been looking out for him, though, because Cynthia had told her that very morning about her betrothal to the prince. Ugly J felt obligated to leave her future husband alive. She didn't take kindly to letting a prospect go free; the only other one who had escaped her went straight to the police, screaming her moniker off the top of his lungs. Luckily, she had not shown the stupid man her face; all it had taken to lure him from his wife's side was a slight flash of her cleavage. She had been fourteen, then, and had misjudged the strength of the man's glamour.

She would never truly forgive herself for that mistake. She stabbed her own hand twelve times as punishment. The distinct hole in her flesh, barely patched by scar tissue, was a permanent reminder to be wary of her own incompetence. There was a bit of a silver lining to the whole situation, though—the police knew her name, and she had become famous as the queen of the knife.

But Ugly J would not allow herself another mistake, not even for her own vanity. She was still a part of this court whether she liked it or not, and it wouldn't be wise to break up a marriage arranged by the king. She would have to play the game until she gave birth to Marrok's child; with a babe in her arms, she could kill him if she so desired. She would play the crazed widow, the single mother, and Luna's regent until her child would come of age. Finally free of the chains that were slowly secured around her, she would then re-emerge from the shadows and begin her true reign of terror over the streets.

Ah, but for that happen, she had to get him alone—an effort she seemed to be stalling. Although it had been at least two months since the wedding, Marrok and Jannali still hadn't consummated their marriage. People began to talk, as they usually did, hushed words behind embroidered fans and gloved hands. Some wondered if it was because the prince found his bride repulsive—those who held a distaste for the royal family, despite the treasonous nature of their gossip, would say that the prince was impotent. Jannali often snickered at their comments, and especially Marrok's reactions to them—subtle reactions, she would give him that. She could tell by the tightening of his shoulders and knitting of his brow that he not amused by the court's murmurs.

Both Cynthia and Aisha would bring up the subject in private conversation, and with increasing frequency; not a day went by without them giving her some thinly-veiled advice for success in the marriage bed. Jannali had told her servants, once, that she was afraid to give up her maidenhead. When her maids would encourage to visit her husband in the evening, she would purse her lips and narrow her piercing eyes—enough of a warning to make them fall silent.

Despite the pestering, Jannali insisted on sleeping in her own chambers. Marrok was the only one, it seemed, that didn't make any efforts to forge a physical relationship between them, for which Jannali was grateful. It just made her task that much easier. She knew herself well enough; a single advance from him would've snapped her fragile resolve. There were some nights when she couldn't keep herself from screaming his name during those desperate efforts to tame her lust. So badly she wanted to be in his arms, hot and breathless and moaning with delight. This obsession that Jannali had for Marrok was something new; she'd fantasized about sex since she was young, but never before had the warm bodies she imagined for herself been given a name, or even a face.

It would have to happen eventually, of course. But not yet. It was all part of the game, the slow build-up to the climax. She wanted to have him as they were on that night they first met, a vicious predator and a wide-eyed boy who couldn't help but give in to her power. Jannali knew that the best way to back him into a corner was to peel away his defences, one by one, until he was exposed to the core. Then, they could  _ truly _ consummate their sacred union.

In the meantime, she was cursed to spend the majority of her days with her mother-in-law; Aisha's chipper attitude about everything was beginning to drive Jannali a bit mad. As she stood behind the queen, watching her redecorate the palace, Jannali could  _ feel _ the rage building up behind her fake smile.

"What do you think, Sweets?" Aisha tittered, holding her hands up in a square shape. "Would this tapestry go well in the throne room? Tybalt wants a replacement and I promised Genevieve's sister that I'd feature one of her pieces  _ somewhere _ in this great mess."

Oh, if she heard the name  _ Sweets _ one more time, Jannali would throttle the woman! "It's nice," she managed to say. Her glamour revealed nothing. Though she didn't care in the slightest about the tapestry, she decided that it was an acceptable choice; the black cloth depicted the Lunar insignia in shimmering, handwoven threads, a design that had originated back when Luna was a republic. It depicted the capital city of Artemisia in the foreground, with Earth in the distance.

The queen smiled. "Yes, yes, that would be good indeed!" She turned to the guard that kept watch behind them. "Fetch Marilee and tell her that she can take down the old rag and hang this up in its place." She waved a dainty hand. "As soon as possible would be best."

They then moved on to the pottery. Jannali kept her twitching fingers busy by rubbing her wedding band. It was forged from pure silver and encrusted with countless small diamonds. She wasn't usually one for precious jewellery, but she found herself growing fond of the ring. It didn't clash with her necklace or the black leather that she would wear on her hunts.

"Jannali dearest, I  _ know _ I must be getting on your nerves with all this marriage talk," Aisha said suddenly. "Tell me, though; what keeps you from spending more time with your husband? Does Marrok upset you?"

Jannali shook her head. "I have nothing against him, My Queen. I admit that I struggle with close relationships. I hope that eventually, I'll get to know and love my lord husband."

With a sigh, Aisha laid a gentle hand on the girl's shoulder. "That, I can understand. Believe me, though, when I say that he's different than the average man; give him a chance to get close and he'll treat you like the queen that you are. He has such a big heart, and I know that you'll both be much happier if you let your marriage grow into both a political and loving relationship."

Jannali hid a sneer behind a bashful smile. She knew damn well that Aisha was trying to manipulate her with words like 'love' and 'heart', as if they meant anything to those who didn't live to serve others. Like strings on a puppet, she could  _ feel _ the queen's hold tightening, squeezing her flesh, threatening to split her skin—no,  _ never. _ Jannali Delacourt would not be swayed by the words of a foolish woman.

After all, the queen knew nothing of the  _ true _ Jannali, the raspy voice that lived inside her head, her heart, her flesh, that fueled her rage and desire without fail. No one would associate her doll-like presence with the monster that lurked beneath the mask. No one, except her darling husband.

_ (Like a fish on a line…) _

"And you truly believe that he and I are compatible?" Jannali tilted her head, letting her white hair fall around her shoulders. Ever the ghost.

Aisha laughed. "Oh, Sweets, if you only knew how perfectly matched you are!"

 

* * *

 

Authorities had long considered Ugly J to be a nuisance, though it wasn't until the discovery of the body of seventeen-year-old Lucas Shaw that King Tybalt began to cry out for her blood, as Lucas Shaw was one of the king's own children. The boy was found hanging from the city hall in Elathia, her signature trademark carved into his ankle. The king had never legitimized his children by other women, largely because of a promise he'd made to Aisha on the day Marrok was born; he swore that their son's claim to the throne would never be challenged, not by siblings or anyone else. This didn't stop Tybalt from supporting these bastards; he would often visit them under various identities, in his best effort to provide them with a father figure. He had been closest to Lucas Shaw, and his death crippled the king in ways that most who knew him would not have believed possible. Tybalt Blackburn had always seemed to be immune to despair.

Aisha did not mind her husband's infidelity—she was fond of saying that Tybalt was not her lover, but her dearest friend, and that he was free to seek from others the physical intimacy that she could not give him herself. If the mothers consented, Aisha would accompany Tybalt on his visits to satisfy her great fondness for young children. Her only son was much too old for coddling, and she had been sterilized soon after his birth, so she looked to find that affection elsewhere. She too was greatly saddened and enraged by the senseless killing of an innocent boy, who had only meagre wealth to his name.

Marrok had never met any of his half-siblings, and nor did he care to, but nonetheless he felt a sense of grief for Lucas Shaw, especially when he saw how hard his parents were taking it. Marrok couldn't make himself think of this dead stranger as a brother, so he mourned for him as one of his subjects.

For many nights after the tragic event, Marrok's dreams were filled with the sickening sound of breaking bones. More than once, he jerked awake with the conviction that someone had been touching him. A shadow lurking behind furniture would often catch him off-guard. He could  _ feel _ himself losing his grip on reality; the dissociation hadn't been that bad since he and James tried ecstasy the year before. Marrok became oddly isolated, afraid to speak to anyone in fear of saying something embarrassing. The most unsettling aspect of the past few weeks, though, was Jannali's constant presence; she never spoke, but she insisted on sitting beside her husband at meals and at court, holding his hand as they walked around the gardens, dancing together at the king's birthday gala. Marrok was disturbed by this porcelain figure who followed him everywhere. Worse was the smell of her, that addictive sweetness. He wished to be rid of her, though he could never bring himself to order her away.

James noticed this unusual behaviour, and though he tried to confront Marrok about it, his wife would always be a step behind; James found that he couldn't speak at all, the way she stared at him with those unnatural eyes.

Marrok noticed in turn how James seemed to avoid him. In one of the few moments he could spare alone, he pulled James aside and asked him what the problem was. James admitted, quite frankly, "She freaks me out. The way she looks at you scares me."

"And how is that?"

James sighed. "Like...like you're something to eat."

Marrok tried to catch a glimpse of this predatory stare that James spoke of, but whenever he glanced at Jannali he was met with only indifference. He did catch, however, the venomous mutterings of the court:  _ We've heard that you haven't yet made any efforts to give us an heir. Do you not have it in you? Or is it your little bride that finds you insufficient? _

He hated them. From birth, he had been raised to beware the hounding courtiers. Every word they said, no matter how worthless or insulting, needed to be taken seriously, for they were the thoughts of the powerful, and Marrok knew that one should never alienate the powerful. But he refused to be the one to reach out to his  _ little bride _ and coax her to spread her legs for him. If she truly cared, she would have to do the work herself.

Every now and then, he felt that she was doing just that; light touches on his shoulders, her skirt hiking up a little higher when she sat beside him, among other little things that could be considered flirtatious. One afternoon, as he was playing through a book of piano sonatas, Jannali came into his private conservatory and insisted that he accompany her on some traditional songs. She chose a provocative madrigal describing two lovers playing around in a meadow; her voice floated so comfortably through the melismatic runs. Listening to her song about sex, the prince found it hard to focus on the movement of his hands. A feeling arose in his gut, unwelcome and strange. He had a sudden vision of the black-eyed girl that dominated his fantasies—with a jolt, he pulled his hands from the keyboard. Jannali stopped singing and gave him a questioning look. He excused himself to get a bit of fresh air. For days afterwards, the sight of that girl refused to fade from Marrok's brain. He wanted to believe that it was a glamour, that Jannali or some other courtier was playing him around, but even when he was alone the feeling persisted.

The culmination of this mental torment came on a Thursday evening, about four months after their wedding. The day at court had been particularly stressful—a second-tier thaumaturge by the name of Midori Vanger had attempted to assassinate her superior, Joshua Haddon, out of envy regarding his promotion. She had been tried and found guilty of treason, though carrying out her execution had been an ordeal. She fought with everything she had—after an hour Haddon gave up trying to make her slit her own throat and called forth the firing squad. The sound of gunshots still echoed in Marrok's head as he returned to his chambers for the night. As he entered his bedroom, he noticed a black notebook resting on the nightstand. A note was stuck to the cover, and it read: "I'm lost, come and bring me home!" A heart had been scrawled at the bottom of the note.

He shook his head. Three times now, he had found Jannali's notebook in his chambers. While it was getting increasingly irritating, there was also a great sense of dread running down his spine; she was in his room when she had no business being there. He had the maids return it to her before, but he wanted to confront her this time. If she left it lying around again, Marrok resolved that he would take to it with a pair of scissors.

As he made his way down the hall, he grew curious as to the contents of the book. He slowed, then backed against the wall. When he opened the book he saw a second note taped to the back of the cover: "Nosey, aren't we?" He ignored it and flipped through the pages. The first fifty or so were what Marrok expected—chemical formulas, equations, titrations...but something eventually caught his eye. One page had large smears of something brown-red that leaked through ten more sheets. Marrok scraped some off the paper and realized with horror that it was old blood. The book reeked of it. He quickly closed the thing and rushed to Jannali's door. He knocked, rolling back on his heels with impatience. His own heartbeat echoed in his head. He didn't have anywhere to be, but it was an inconvenience that he shouldn't have had to endure in the first place. There was no answer. Marrok glowered and knocked again. When Jannali didn't open the door, he pulled it open, entered, and slammed it shut behind him. He didn't care if she heard. Her repulsive prank wasn't the least bit amusing.

Jannali didn't seem to be expecting him—the sheer curtains were drawn over the windows and the lights were dimmed down low. He passed by a large mirror on the far wall and did a double-take. It had been weeks since he'd last seen himself; he looked so  _ angry _ . Perhaps it was the obvious fatigue that weighed down his features. He ran a hand through his hair until it looked tame.

He could hear soft humming in an adjacent room, and he gripped the notebook like a vice. When he turned the corner, he saw the black-eyed girl sitting on a ruffled tabouret, running a brush through her long brown hair. Marrok's eyes widened as he took her in, dressed in nothing but a thin silk robe that didn't leave much to the imagination. He found it difficult to tear his gaze away from her, especially when he noticed the way the flimsy fabric outlined her pert breasts. Her hands, swathed in tan skin, sported sharp nails that could be seen even from where Marrok hid behind the wall. She continued to hum a charming little ditty as she gazed at herself in the mirror. Marrok could see her angular face staring back at him through her reflection, and she grinned— _ Jannali _ , his wife, the black-eyed girl. His heart crawled through his throat and threatened to fall out of his mouth.

Jannali turned around and let out a delighted gasp. "My book! Oh, I've been looking for it everywhere!" She stood and scurried over to him. "Give it, give it!"

It took Marrok a moment to swallow back his apprehension. "I don't want to see this in my room again," he warned. He held out the notebook, and Jannali took it from him without breaking eye contact.

Marrok nearly doubled over. Her eyes, through her long lashes, were a rich onyx colour, thick like tar. Her chestnut hair fell in waves around her cheeks. Her mocking smile, her tender voice, her sweet scent…

She must've been glamouring him all this time, there was no other way that she could look so exactly like  _ her _ , the girl in his dreams. A dream that took place in an alley, with a knife and the terror of Luna...

_ New Fish. _

That gruesome smile of hers—he could see her ripping the entrails from a boy's stomach, see her throwing Lucas Shaw from the town hall with a noose around his neck. He charged away from her, his blood flowing like molasses. " _ Stay away from me _ ."

"Ah, you finally remember me?" Jannali laughed and tilted her head, revealing her elegant neck. "Then again, I  _ have  _ been throwing hints at you since, well...since forever."

Marrok pushed her aside, and she fell to the floor. He turned and ran; the door was still open, he could get out and get the guards and kill her for good—until a knife came whizzing past his ear and ended up stuck in the wall. Marrok fell to his knees in a delayed reaction. Panting, he rubbed his neck in search of a wound.

"Yeah, I don't think so." He heard her laugh again as she crawled over to him. She produced another knife and slid an arm around his shoulders, holding the blade to his jugular. She nodded her head in the direction of the divan. "Get up. Sit there."

It took him a few seconds to suck in a ragged breath. Jannali pressed the blade harder against his exposed throat. "I'll sit, I swear," he gasped. She kissed him below the ear before slowly pulling the knife away. Her predatory gaze followed him closely as he got up onto his shaking legs and limped to the divan.

She, too, stood to lock the door. The  _ click  _ of the metal bolt made Marrok shudder. In his mind's eye, he saw his own guts being torn from his belly. Jannali sighed, and as she moved, he caught a glimpse of her nude body through the sheer fabric of her robe. "There, my love. Let's spend some time together."

 


	7. Who Shall Me Let

Looking back on this night, Marrok would be very ashamed to admit that he had almost wet himself in his fear. She stared at him intently, ferociously. His eyes darted back and forth in search of an escape.   
  
"Come," Jannali insisted. "It was you who insisted that we get to know each other. So I want to tell you more about me."   
  
Marrok closed his eyes. Slowly, details of a distant night crawled back into his memory. The way she had held him down, he thought he would be raped and killed, like all the other boys who were unfortunate enough to cross her path. Now, they were alone, and she was ready to eat him alive.   
  
No. His very life was on the line; he had to think rationally, try to appeal to her humanity, her femininity, her ego. He knew for certain that she wanted his body, the only weapon he had against her. Thus, he took a seat next to the killer all while fear curdled his blood. Jannali had perched herself so that the skirt of her robe was hitched over her thigh, and Marrok did his best to avert his gaze. "I know what you want," he declared.   
  
Jannali arched an eyebrow. "Ah? Will you give it then, or will I have to take it?" Her smile turned to a pout. "I'm about ready to jump your bones, My Prince. I can't hold it back for much longer." She laid her head down on his shoulder. "I don't think you can either," she whispered.   
  
Marrok held back a gag, not only at her words but also at the wave of pleasure that coursed through him. The many dreams of the black-eyed woman, of his wife, began to possess him. He did not want her. He would not want her.   
  
Jannali placed a hand on his thigh. He hissed and pushed her away. Heat was rising to his face. He could've handled embarrassment, but this fire was something alien, a feeling he'd only been able to imagine. Jannali giggled, her chestnut curls bouncing around her shoulders in a hypnotizing display. "Your father seems upset with me."   
  
"You killed his son."   
  
"His bastard," she corrected. "The fool was trying to take me to bed, so I gave him what he deserved."   
  
Marrok wanted to scream. To claw her eyes out and beat her until she bled, for causing his parents such pain. Yet, he didn't move. He was intrigued. He was hot and very, very bothered.   
  
He wanted to kill himself for it.   
  
"Why do you do it?" he asked, gripping the fabric of his coat. "Make me understand."   
  
Jannali fingered the necklace draped over her collar. Marrok realized that the charms were made of bone; he knew better than to pray that it was from an animal. The steering taste of bile lingered on his tongue. "You want to understand…" She clucked her tongue. "How do I explain my instincts? Well, when I see a prospect, the world turns red. It feels like my stomach is going to crawl up my throat. It's all I can think about until I finally stick it to the pig. Oh, the blood...it's so hot and sticky. It's orgasmic, really." She closed her eyes. "I suppose it's also those men that make me so predatory. You know, the kind who leer and stare at me, who have since I was eleven."   
  
Marrok had a feeling that this would be a root cause of the monster's existence, though in Artemisia, sexual assault was nearly considered a rite of passage. "You take revenge on those who've hurt you," he concluded.   
  
"No—it amuses me, Marrok. The way all their civility and sociability and intelligence just melt away as soon as the idea of a beautiful girl pops into their heads."   
  
Marrok's heart hammered in his chest. Jannali inched closer and put a hand on his shoulder, her eyes gleaming as she rhapsodized. "My father always told me that I needed to  _ shut up _ . When I was born he gave me this stupid doll—I called it Lolita—and he suggested that I glamour myself to look like it. A little white bitch. His attitude flipped around when he noticed my changing body. He would stare at me. Walk in on me while I showered and dressed. He became foolish and stupid until the day I finally killed him."   
  
Marrok remembered when Samson Delacourt had been killed—his wife spent days in the palace, weeping in the queen's arms. Cynthia...my dear friend, all she has left is her darling daughter, she had told him. Now, he was seeing the full picture: that's what she did, Cynthia's darling daughter. She tore families apart.   
  
Another thought came to him, more disturbing than the last. He imagined this dead lord touching his own young daughter, drooling after her, stuffing her up and using her as a doll. Jannali relished in Marrok's discomfort. "I realized early on in life that men do not matter," she continued. "They think to dominate me, but they can hardly dominate their own urges. My cleavage makes them idiots. My legs turn them into morons." Jannali snorted. "Since birth, I've been groomed to desire men, to please them, though I was never one to obey. Would you like to know how many men have tried to rape me?"   
  
Marrok paled. "No, I can already picture it."   
  
"Many many many. And each time I say, no, you won't fuck me to death, because that's my job. Sharp objects work a lot better for this than you'd think."   
  
"Enough! I don't want the details!"   
  
She bit her lip. "Why, is it turning you on?"   
  
_ Yes.  _ "No, it's disgusting! You're disgusting!"   
  
"What?" Jannali clapped her hands over her heart. "You don't like me, darling?"   
  
Marrok clenched his fist. His face was growing warmer than a furnace. "I don't want anything to do with you."   
  
"Yeah right, you liar." Jannali laughed and tossed her hair. "How much longer do you want to drag this out? Because I'm all fired up."   
  
_ Drag it out as long as you can.  _ "All this because you feel oppressed?"   
  
She rolled her eyes. "Please, I don't care enough to be oppressed. It's a game, Marrok." It wasn't often that she addressed him by his name, and Marrok further resented how much he liked the way it rolled off her tongue. "I'm a hunter. And they're like..." Jannali looked up at the ceiling as if she were searching for the proper description. "They're like stupid deer, bucks in heat. I've heard that's the ideal time to go out and shoot them when you hunt on Earth."   
  
Marrok had not the faintest concept of earthen hunts, so he leaned back and asked, "How often do you do this?"   
  
"It depends on the opportunity. When I have the chance to slip out unnoticed, I pay my off one of my lady's maids to pose as me under the pretence of sneaking off with a lover. Then I'm free to go prospecting."   
  
"Prospecting is killing, I assume?"   
  
"Choosing, stalking, setting the trap...and if the scene is perfect, then yes, killing."   
  
Marrok raised an eyebrow. "And where do you...prospect?"   
  
"Mostly in the outer sectors—no one really tends to notice disappearances in the mines. If I'm the mood for an aftermath, I'll go to Dianan or Elathia."   
  
"And Artemisia."   
  
She nodded. "Sometimes I like to stay close to home." She flicked her hair away and put her second hand on Marrok's chest. Her scent was driving him mad; he couldn't find it in himself to continue resisting her. He put an arm around her waist and rested his head against hers, admiring the softness of her hair. He put his other hand on her thigh. Her skin was so warm; stupidly, he asked, "Do you plan on killing me?"   
  
Jannali kissed his forehead. "No," she lied, her voice sweet as honey. "My purpose, according to the state, is to ascend my husband's throne as queen and give birth to the next monarch. To do that I need you alive."   
  
His mouth felt dry like he hadn't had water in days. "We start tonight, don't we?"   
  
"If you say so," she giggled.   
  
"I'll die once you have my child. I'm not as stupid as you think—what if I don't let you fulfil your purpose?"   
  
Jannali clucked her tongue. "I can tell that you want me, Marrok; I see it in your eyes. You won't be able to stop it. You're a prospect in heat and I'll take great pleasure in—"   
  
"Take me with you."   
  
Jannali blinked. "Pardon?"   
  
Marrok ran a hand through his hair, forcing himself to look at her in the eye. "Next time you go prospecting. Take me along." He took her hand and put on his best debonair smile, in an effort to slip into his prince charming persona. "I want to see how you do it."   
  
The princess' eyes widened, and she pursed her lips. "Are you screwing me around?"   
  
"I want to go with you," he insisted.   
  
"Why? What makes you think you have the guts?"

“I’m asking you to show me how you prospect because it interests me. Because I’m bored with my life,” he sighed. It was beginning to sound true.   
  
Jannali pursed her lips. She picked at a hangnail on her thumb. "I've never…I've never done it with a partner before. It's just double the work, and you’ll probably fuck it all up."    
  
“Then teach me how to do it right.” Marrok looked into her eyes with a fierce intensity. He didn't know whether he was acting on instinct, buying himself time from Ugly J's claws, or if he really—   
  
"Fine, I’ll give you a shot. I like shaking things up. Boredom is my only weakness, you know.” She laughed. “I’ll also get to show you what I’ll do if you go snitching on me.”   
  
Ignoring the threat, he leaned in and kissed her. He moaned her name, a lovely ballad dripping with threats and poison. She buried her left hand in his hair and used the other to tear off her robe. Pulling his face away from hers, she settled onto his lap. Marrok bit his lip as he took in her naked body. It was even more beautiful than in his dreams.

“You like?”

He closed his eyes and took in a deep breath. “Very much.”

 

* * *

 

When morning came around, Marrok found himself naked in a strange bed with a strange girl. She was lying on his chest, her nails caked with blood. She stared at him eagerly. “Good. You’re alive.”

He groaned and ran his hands down his face. What seemed like another dream had at last been a reality—the kisses, the touches, the feelings of insecurity and fear as she took off his clothes. And oh, the pleasure; he had been sure that he would never feel it. They had done it three times, or maybe more, though his memory couldn’t be trusted beyond that. He then asked her, “How much did we do?”

“Just gentle, loving vanilla sex. But I loved it—you have things to work on, of course, but so do I.” She sat up beside him and held up a chunk of her matted hair. “I want more pulling,” she gestured to her neck, “and more hickeys. I want to look like a battered woman when we’re done.”

Marrok stared up at the ceiling. He nodded slowly. “You know better than I,” he whispered.

She blew a lock of hair from her face. “And what does that mean?”

“It means that anyone alive knows better about these things than I do. You’ll have to be my teacher.” 

She clapped her hands together and laughed. “Class is already in session! Come on, let’s do it again.”

His head throbbed at the thought of another bout of whatever had come over him the night before. He propped himself up on his elbows and gasped from the sharp pain he felt in his back.  He sat upright, a low groan pouring from his chapped lips. A large section of the sheet was glued to his back. 

“Hold still,” Jannali commanded. “This is gonna hurt like a bitch.” In one jerk, she tore away the sheet. Marrok bit back cries of pain. The fabric came back red and sticky, and his back stung like a swarm of bees. Jannali looked down at her filthy nails and smiled sheepishly. “Whoops. That happens sometimes; I scratch when I feel good.”   
  
Marrok’s entire body had gone tense. He prayed that she hadn’t reopened the wounds by ripping away the sheet. He wasn’t as disturbed by the violence itself as he was by the fact that he must’ve been too lost in ecstasy to notice it happening at all. A quote from  _ Boundless Evil _ came to mind:  _ She took him to bed and the whole world disappeared. _

  
“So, do you wanna do it again?”

  
Marrok turned and found his way to edge of the bed. He stood on his wobbly legs and put on his wrinkled pants. The tall mirror on her vanity revealed his reflection. It was worse than he'd thought; the scratches had scabbed over, leaving crimson slashes across his flesh. Jannali had ravaged his neck as well, leaving it covered in purplish-black blotches. His eyes were bloodshot, his hair sticking up at all ends—all combined, he looked as if he had just sobered up from a terrible acid trip.

Jannali came around behind him. “I’ll take that as a no, then.” He shrieked as he felt something warm and wet rub his back. "Hush," she said, gently kissing his shoulder. "I'm cleaning the wound. Just stand still and relax." Marrok couldn't help but whimper in pain as she wiped away all traces of dried blood and rubbed on a disinfectant salve. The cream numbed the pain, and Marrok let out a sigh of relief.   
  
Jannali smiled. "Better?"   
  
"Yes," he said, leaning back into her touch as she applied a dressing and a large bandage over the wound. She then helped him remove the sheets and shove them through the laundry chute. As they refit the bed with fresh linens, Marrok noted that the blood had not soaked through to the mattress.

Jannali wrapped herself in the discarded duvet. “Shall I announce to the world that we have gone forth and coupled?”   
  
He blushed and said, "Be my guest. Hopefully this will give them something new to talk about."   
  
"Yes, about how I have a bun in the oven," Jannali tittered. “One that’s probably not yours.”

Marrok chuckled. "I’ve had several ‘children’ in the last few years, myself. The noble girls like to tell stories about me.” 

“I imagine that causes quite a shitstorm with your parents.”

He shrugged. “It's a wonder that Father hasn't had them executed for libel and treason."   
  
"Your father isn't that kind of man. He doesn't have the courage or determination to put such powerful people to death, no matter how much they deserve it."   
  
Marrok thought about for a moment, and came to the conclusion that she was right. His father was a weak man; weak for power, weak for women, weak for his son. 

He nearly jumped as Jannali turned towards him with a gleam in her eye. She would never be foolish enough to off the king. Of course not. But Marrok figured that it would be better not to challenge her on that front; it was already very apparent to him that she had no qualms about harming anybody.


	8. Grutch Who Lust

Though he sensed her presence as she came into his study, Marrok still jolted when Jannali’s warm hands came suddenly around his face and covered his eyes. “Guess who,” she preened.

Marrok smiled. “An angel.”

She ruffled his hair. “Oh, shut up. I have a present for you.”

Just as she took a hand away from his face, he heard a horrible slam, which made the desk jerk beneath his palm. He gasped as he saw the monstrous-looking knife wedged in the wood between his index and middle fingers, only millimetres away from slicing them clean off. Sensually, Jannali ran a hand down his back and kissed his cheek. “Yes, yes, it’s yours. I got it sometime last year, but it’s too big for me. A _man_ ’s knife,” she giggled.

It took him a moment to catch his breath. “Well...thank you,” he managed to say.

She rested her head on his shoulder. "We go tonight. I think you’re ready. "

Marrok craned his neck back to look at her. She stared at him intently as she took a seat on the edge of his desk, her arms crossed over her chest. Both excitement and dread weighed down Marrok’s stomach as she continued to speak. "Right after evening tea, we’ll sneak out into the city through the servants’ quarters. From there, we take the maglev to Sector LUM-36."

"And what would be our alibi?" Marrok asked, loosening his collar.

"I'm, of course, sneaking off to visit my lover in Dianan. Serenity will glamour herself as ‘Lolita’ and take my place until I return. As for you..." Jannali stood and paced around, coming to rest a hand on his shoulder. "You will be off with your mistress."

Marrok's cheeks flushed. "I don't have a mistress."

"As far as the court knows," Jannali whispered in his ear, "you've been spending the last two weeks with some kitchen wench after your wife proved to be a bad lay. Of course, I hope that this is to remain a lie that I've crafted. If I caught you with _anyone_ , I’d have to _chop it off_."

Marrok shivered. It was a threat, that much was clear. But he had no intention of sneaking off with some kitchen wench—not yet, anyway. "Of course."

Jannali smiled, and Marrok found himself ravished by her gaze. She had made a habit of letting down her horrid white glamour whenever they were alone, and her true appearance only grew more beautiful to him by the day. Cautiously, he rose up from his seat and moved to kiss her; he wasn’t sure how she would receive him, so he was always wary to make the first move. But Jannali purred and pulled him against her, playing with his hair and tugging at his shirt.

A knock at the door was quick to interrupt them before they went any further. With a sneer, Jannali pulled away from her husband. She tore the knife from the desk and held it hidden behind her back. Marrok cleared his throat and smoothed down his hair. "Yes?"

Through the door came a maid, and Jannali made no effort to hide her displeasure as she slipped into the glamour of a pink-haired princess, wearing a gown made of nothing but flowers. The maid curtsied and, for a moment, eyed Jannali with a look that seemed to ask, _now who might you be?_ She then said, "His Majesty is waiting for you in the main conference room, My Prince. He requests that you be quick to meet him."

Marrok bowed his head. “Thank you, I’ll only be a moment.”

Jannali's eyes shot daggers at the woman's back as she shuffled out of the room. Her grip tightened on the knife’s handle. Her blood began to simmer beneath her fake smile. Once the maid shut the door with a satisfying _click_ , Jannali turned to see her husband putting on a coat and gathering his various documents. Disappointment and irritation brewing in her gut, she released her glamour and wrapped her arms around his waist. “How lame,” she muttered.

"I'm sorry, Jannali," the prince said, and she shivered with pleasure as he kissed her again. "Father’s been on my ass all week about these reports," he lowered his mouth to her ear, "but I'll see you at tea, okay?"

She stood up on her toes and whispered, “I’m the one that’ll be on your ass later, New Fish.”

 

* * *

 

Tea with Aisha and Tybalt was a painfully dull affair. Jannali wondered if they held these stupid gatherings just to spite her. More than once, she found herself gripping her teacup to the point of shattering it. Seated beside her, Marrok didn’t seem to be bothered by his parents’ inane chatter, ruining what should’ve been time to plan for that night’s excursion. Once Their Majesties finally took their leave, Jannali dumped her tea back in the teapot—much to the maids' dismay—and rushed to her chambers, where Serenity was waiting for her. As the princess came into her dressing room, Serenity asked, "Highness, are you going out again tonight?"

Jannali flung open her closet and lifted up the bottom slat, revealing a secret compartment. "Yes. Only for a few hours, so you can just do what you like in here and act the part if anyone comes looking for me. I'll be back by one."

Serenity nodded. “Of course.” Her attention was then drawn back to her game of mikado, so Jannali felt no need to hide her actions from her lady-in-waiting. From the compartment in the closet, she pulled out a set of black leather clothes and her weapons, all hidden snugly in a messenger bag. She went into the bathroom to change from her white gown into these clothes, which consisted of a pair of leggings, a cotton shirt, a leather jacket and a pair of leather boots. The leather was especially important, since it didn’t easily absorb blood or other fluids.

When she was ready, she met up with Marrok by the servants' quarters as they had planned. She had ordered him to pick out black, leather clothes like hers; she was pleased to see that he had managed to scrounge up something acceptable. "You listened," she commended, adjusting Marrok's jacket. “You should do something about your hair, though. A neon sign would draw less attention.”

He frowned, patting his head. His hair straightened and became a dull shade of brown. She then took him by the hand.  "Perfect, let's go." As they walked, she felt his fingers trembling in her grip. His skin had gone sickeningly pale. "You're shaking like a leaf," Jannali tittered. "Are you scared of blood, My Prince? It's not like you've never seen someone die before."

"I'm afraid of getting caught."

She snorted, then pulled her necklace out from under her shirt and waved it in his face. "Oh, hush. Look at these charms. Each one is a dead man. If you listen to what I say and do exactly what I do, we'll be able to walk into the palace with a corpse in hand and still not be caught."

For a moment, there was only tense silence between them. Marrok tried to connect the dots between what she was showing and what she was saying. Finally, he said, “How long have you been wearing that?”

“I never take it off,” she laughed. “I’m just so good at blowing your mind that you’ve never noticed.”

Bile rose up in his throat, burning his tongue. He became sickeningly aware of the reality of the situation. _This is happening. You are going out to murder someone._ Though he felt terrified and confused, he couldn’t help but follow her as she them out the back exit of the servants’ quarters. They glamoured themselves as kitchen hands in order to slip out unnoticed past the guards.

On this side of the palace grounds, the walls of the buildings were dark and stooped, like giants waiting to kill. Marrok tried to stay as close to Jannali as possible—the last time he’d been out this way was when he and James, at nine years old, had decided to run off into town for an afternoon. That was still in broad daylight. Marrok stared ahead as they made their way down street, and he was reassured by the streetlamps that came into view. Jannali told him that it was only a ten minutes' walk to the maglev station. They went through AR-2, the ‘food district’, where market after market burst with produce of every colour and shape, as well as bakeries with a constant stream of bread. Marrok licked his lips as they passed the best ice cream parlour in the country.

It was cool and luminescent inside the maglev train, a calming atmosphere for which Marrok was quite grateful. He sat next to his wife and took her hand in his. No one paid any attention to the two, acting as lowly servants on their way home. Jannali smiled and laid her head down in the crook of his neck. "I have everything we'll need in here," she whispered, clutching onto her messenger bag. It had the air of a book-bag, unsuspecting and innocent. "I thought we might keep things clean and simple tonight."

"How are we going to do it?"

She put a finger to his lips. "You'll see."

Marrok sat back and stayed quiet. The maglev came to a stop after half an hour, and Jannali led them out of the station and into Sector LUM-36. It wasn't the poorest of the sectors, not by a long shot, but it was still a stark contrast to the splendour if the capital. The buildings were low and sparse, and between them ran long stone streets coated with dust. Marrok glanced around, his eyes wide. He had been ten years old the last time he’d been to an outer sector, though he didn't remember it being that decrepit.

"There's a lot more to see in the centre of town," said Jannali. "We'll take a little stroll and choose our prospect." Her eyes glimmered. "I usually pick one and stalk it for a while—good to get the blood pumping—but we can't be out for too long, so we'll have to keep this brief.”

Marrok changed back into the skin of the blonde boy. It had become his staple glamour for when he didn't want to be recognized. Jannali didn't let go of his hand, though it felt strange to hold it as a stranger. They made their way through the alleys into what Marrok assumed was the town square. There were a few people milling about, mostly tired lumber workers slumping home after a ten-hour shift, and a few teenagers out past curfew.

"Which one do you want?" Jannali whispered in his ear.

Marrok turned to her. "Pardon?"

She nudged him. "It's your hunt. You choose which one you want."

Marrok scanned the area, and he found himself lingering on a group of rowdy boys. They couldn't have been older than eighteen, and they laughed in their crude accent, rough and heavy compared to the refined dialect of the aristocracy. Marrok fixated on one in particular, who bore a strong resemblance to Jared Moonborne, from the lanky figure to the slick black hair. A surge of hatred flooded through the prince as he remembered, so vividly, Jared and his oafish brother breaking into his chambers and vandalizing his possessions. And all because he didn't address them as lords on their first meeting.

"That one. With the black hair," said Marrok.

Jannali caught sight of the boy in question, and her lips spread into a sly grin. "Oh, yes. He's quite... _cute_ ," she crooned, and Marrok glanced at her with a raised eyebrow. In response, she kissed his cheek. "Don't be jealous."

"What told you I was jealous?"

She brushed him off and began to stalk forward. When he didn't follow, she turned and beckoned Marrok to her side. "Nice and slow. We have to get him alone. Give him a reason to leave the group."

They retreated to a shop next to the alley where the boys were loitering. A large number of milling customers gave them a decent cover. They pretended to look at the dust-laden products as they whispered in each other's ear.

"Can you feel his bioelectricity from here?"

Marrok nodded.

Jannali clutched his sleeve. "Good. Tell him that he needs to go now. He suddenly remembered that his mother needs help at home. Remind him that his way home is the street that goes through behind the plaza."

Marrok felt for the unique glimmer that he had committed to memory moments before. Through the window, he and Jannali watched as the boy stood and excused himself, bidding goodnight to his friends. He began to walk away down the street; Jannali led Marrok out of the store and they followed a good distance behind. Marrok kept the boy on course, binding his mind to his will like an invisible leash. They followed him a good fifteen minutes until Jannali told Marrok to loosen his grip. The prince complied, and the boy perked up and shook his head. His heart began to race in unexpected anticipation, which Jannali seemed to reciprocate.

The boy turned and frowned, aware that he had been brainwashed. "Who's there?"

For a moment, Marrok saw himself alone in the dark, in the boy’s confused face, defenceless prey caught between Ugly J's talons. Jannali handed her bag off to him and took a step towards the boy. The cruel look that twisted her beautiful face shook Marrok to the core; it was the face that had nearly taken his own life, and would now do the same to a nameless person who had the misfortune of looking like Jared Moonborne.

She suddenly grabbed onto her husband’s arm and tugged him forward. “Come on, New Fish! He’s gonna slip away if you don’t do something soon!” She then kicked the paralyzed boy in the shins, toppling him to the ground. She knelt behind him and wound her arms around his neck in a headlock. Like a lover, she whispered in his ear, “Aw, you don’t like getting beat up by a girl? Tell you what, I’ll let my boy-toy kill you off so that you can die with a little pride.” Turning her attention to her husband, she whispered, _knife_.

A terrifying bout of hesitation gripped Marrok’s heart. He pulled the knife she had given him from the messenger bag, which he then slung over his shoulder. The hilt of the knife felt cold in his hand. He glanced again at the terrified face trapped in Jannali’s arms. She meant for him to be stabbed, but Marrok didn’t know where to begin. Which small patch of flesh would determine whether the boy lived or died? He knew the heart was on the left side of the chest, but he doubted that he’d be able to hit it in one stroke.

But it was far too late to change his mind, to run from such a daunting task. Regardless of his choice, this night would be the boy’s last, so Marrok stamped down his fear and took the first step into ruin.

He knelt in front of the boy, splayed his left hand on his chest, and began to stab with the right one. The first strike was shallow, and Marrok was surprised at how thick and resilient the muscle was. He grit his teeth and put all his strength into each swing. The boy screamed behind Jannali’s suffocating hands. Marrok swallowed down any inkling of mercy as the boy’s blood spattered on his face and his clothes. Again and again, he plunged the knife into the boy’s chest, only knowing that he was dead when Jannali pushed the corpse away from herself, sending it sprawling on the ground. Marrok nearly cut his hand on the knife, effectively breaking out of his trance.

The two sat in silence for a few minutes, staring at each other. Jannali eventually smiled and crawled through the mess of blood into his arms. She licked the blood from his left cheek, then moved on to his lips. He didn’t want the kiss to ever end, but Jannali pulled his head away with brute force. “You’re beautiful,” she whispered. Her cheeks were flushed and her breath came in heavy sighs.

"That was..." Marrok searched for the right word. "That was so  _thrilling_ ," he gasped. He glanced over at the corpse; the boy's eyes were still open, staring aimlessly into space. The prince expected to feel guilt, horror, disgust at what he’d done, but he could only think of how his blood boiled with excitement and desire. He watched with curiosity as Jannali stooped down and took the knife to the boy’s ankle, carving her signature into the fragile skin.

“I’ll take credit for this one, since no one knows who you are.”

Marrok nodded. He would have to come up with his own signature. She then ran him through the process of destroying possible evidence, posing the body, sneaking away unnoticed—everything that would ensure a successful hunt. As he slowly came down from the high, Marrok began to understand what it was that made Ugly J tick. To have the power to determine life and death...it made him feel like a god. When they returned to the palace, she pulled him into bed, and he relished in the feeling of being adored by a goddess. They celebrated the death of an innocent prince, as well as the birth of a king.


	9. The Apex Predator

_"That is my ambition, to have killed more people – more helpless people – than any man or woman who has ever lived.”_

— Jane Toppan


End file.
